Origins

by J. F. Holmes

  At this, General Washington replied, “Indeed, your men suffered, and those who remained suffered more in the trials that followed. That’s why we’re here, to that end.” He gestured at Knox and continued, “Colonel Knox is one of my most trusted advisors. He’ll be tasked with the provisioning and oversight of this new force. He reports directly to me.” Washington gestured at the Intelligence officer standing at the window. “Major Talmadge will collect intelligence and provide your targets.”

  The tall general sat down, as did Colonel Knox. Washington then steepled his fingers and regarded me over them for a long moment. After a time during which the only sound was the ticking of the clock, he spoke, “I’ll not ask if the explosion in the warehouse was accidental. You said it was, and I’ll take you at your word.”

  Knox laughed heartily. “A jolly good show, that, accident or not! Our sources in the city said the fire spread to a nearby third-rate ship of the line and damaged two frigates. The HMS Somerset is apparently out of the fight for months for a refit!”

  With a stern look at Knox, Washington continued, “Captain, you say that you believe the…creature…escaped? Why do you believe this?”

  I thought for a moment, then replied, “I don’t know for sure. I strongly suspect, and I fear it did.” I then relayed how I had seen the fiend healing, and the peculiar streak of smoke shooting out of the fireball.

  When I had finished my tale, Washington and Knox exchanged a glance, then Washington said gravely, “Well done, Major. I fear we have another task for you.” He looked at the young Intelligence officer by the window.

  The young man cleared his throat and began to speak in a polite, cultured tone, “Sirs. It has recently been reported that our troops up north near Fort Ticonderoga have been reporting strange events in Lake Champlain. Apparently something is attacking our patrol boats. We’ve lost three this past month.”

  With a half-smile, I replied, “Not, I assume, our friends in red?”

  With a serious expression, Talmadge responded, “No, sir. Apparently these attacks consist of something crawling out of the lake and over the gunnel of the patrol boats and slaughtering the crews, or dragging them screaming into the icy waters of the lake.” He added distastefully, “Apparently they are described as eyes, teeth, tentacles and claws, and with a shriek like something from Dante’s Inferno.”

  I nodded thoughtfully and replied, “It’d be unfortunate for them if they tried that on a patrol boat filled with Marines with loaded muskets and cutlasses at the ready.”

  “Precisely so, sir.” The young man picked up a leather-bound packet of papers, stepped forward, and handed them to me. “Your orders, maps, and local support teams.” He gestured at Colonel Knox. “The colonel has notified all commands to be on the lookout for your heraldry.”

  “When do I leave?” I asked, fearing I knew the answer.

  Washington replied, “As soon as your men are reprovisioned.” He looked down at his desk for a moment, then said, “It will be necessary to have your men travel by way of Trenton, where you will meet with your British counterparts. From there you travel north under the scarlet flag.” He paused, then said in a somber voice, “I wish you luck and pray for the strength of the Almighty to guide your path and protect you.” He stood and said in a firm tone, “God protect you, Major Tillerson.”

  I stood, returned the salute, and replied, “God and the United States Marine Infantry, sir.” I turned and exited into the ever-present bite of the winter wind.

  Epilogue

  Major Sean Tillerson went on to lead a combined force of Royal and Continental Marines for the duration of the American Revolution. While he never again fired a shot in anger at the English, he and his team were responsible for the location and elimination of multiple supernatural threats throughout the war. Sadly, the records of this unit have long since been lost, with the bulk of the official documentation being destroyed when the Library of Congress was burned by the British in 1814. The detachment of Marines he led would eventually evolve into the Joint Task Force for Supernatural Defense we know as JTF 13. Major Tillerson retired after the war and moved back to rural Pennsylvania to his estate, where his family lives to this day. He died of advanced age in 1826, and is buried in the Mount Pleasant Presbyterian Church Cemetery, Mount Pleasant, Pennsylvania.

  Lieutenant William Turley stayed in the Marines and was one of the first United States Marine Corps officers to lead Marines on foreign soil when they landed in Tripoli in 1806. He was killed in action in 1816 against the British at the Battle of Bladensburg, leading the Marines in the desperate rearguard defense of Washington DC. He is interred in his family cemetery in Boston, Mass.

  Sergeant Jonathan Armistead took his discharge after the war and returned to Lancastertown, Pennsylvania, where he was lost to history.

  Lieutenant William Pitcairn continued his service to the Crown and served a long and distinguished career in the Royal Marines, reaching the rank of lieutenant colonel. He eventually returned to England and served an additional twenty years as a Member of Parliament. While in Parliament, he was instrumental in creating the Royal Marine Special Force, which eventually became known as 13 Marine Commando—the Crown’s equivalent to Joint Task Force 13. He was knighted by Queen Victoria as a Knight of the Order of St. Michael and St. George in 1850. He died of advanced age in 1853, and is buried on his family estate on the Isle of Shelley, England.

  Major John André was promoted to chief of Intelligence for the Royal Army in the Colonies. He was caught behind the American lines on a mission to retrieve the American traitor Benedict Arnold, and after a short trial, was hung as a spy by the Continental Army on October 2, 1780. He is interred in Westminster Abbey as a Hero of the Realm. He was 30 years old.

  Lucas Marcum is a Neurological Critical Care Nurse Practitioner in a busy Pennsylvania trauma center and an officer in the US Army Reserve. He is the author of the best selling “Valkyrie” novel, about a medevac unit saving lives in a brutal 23rd century conflict. His work can be found here on Amazon.

  Run Through the Jungle

  L.A. Behm II

  You ain’t going to believe this, but…

  Officially we were at Khe Sanh Combat Base collecting local intel on the NVA operating in the no go zone of the DMZ. Unofficially, Colonel Conrad had sent my company up here because there were rumors of strange things—well, stranger than normal—in the jungle. Naturally, you can’t walk up to the commanding officer of 1/1 Marines and say, ‘Sir, heard there were some monsters running through the jungle. We’re here to help!’ so I was laying in the VIP bunker reading Hell in a Very Small Place before turning in when Master Guns Huggins came around the grenade wall.

  “Major, the OP out on Hill 558 has got a ‘weird one’,” Master Guns said, shaking his head at my choice of reading material.

  “Weird, how?”

  “Local came running into the OP just before dusk, covered in blood and babbling. Lucky for him he was also waving one of those Chieu Hoi safe conduct leaflets; otherwise, the boys up at 558 probably would have greased him. The LT in charge of the OP doesn’t have the force to go outside the wire and investigate, so he kicked things upstairs.”

  “Dusk was a couple hours ago, Master Guns,” I replied, tucking Fall’s book into my rucksack.

  “Yes, sir. Bit of a problem with translation—they medevac’d the guy who’s supposed to be translating at 558 out of here this morning with a case of the shits,” Huggins replied, handing me my flak jacket from where it was hanging over the back of a chair. “Took time for things to work through the intel guys with 3/26 H&S.”

  “And you found out…”

  “I was waiting to use the radio to make a call, sir. I went through basic with the master sergeant in charge of 3/26’s intel unit. It wasn’t Lieutenant von Rhor’s fault, Major.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Master Guns. I take it you offered the services of the amazing Nguyen Brothers to the lieutenant?”

  The Nguyens we
re a pair of Kit Carson Scouts attached to my company. Unlike most of my boys, who had volunteered for MAC-V (SU-13) without seeing anything, the Nguyens had seen ‘things’ before defecting to the South. Huynh told me after they became my translators that watching a political officer get his head bitten off by a snake eating cow had been amusing, but it was also a sign they needed to head south.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We going to him, or are they bringing him to us?” I said, grabbing my Ithaca shotgun.

  “Resupply convoy rolled out to the OP’s two hours ago, sir,” Huggins said, glancing at his watch. “They should be back in the wire with the prisoner in ten minutes. Which gives us enough time to get to the H&S intel shack.”

  I dropped my steel pot on my head at a jaunty angle. “Lay on, Macduff.”

  * * * * *

  Calling the bunker where 3/26 had their intel operation a shack was an insult to shacks everywhere. At least it wasn’t the rainy season. Someone had attempted to raise the level of the floor in the bunker with pallets and plywood. Since the engineers had built the bunker by the book, that meant anyone over about five eight had to walk hunched over. Even with all that, it was out of the elements, and a relatively quiet place to question someone.

  By my government issue Timex, it took eleven minutes to walk from the VIP hooch to the intel shack. The Nguyen brothers were inside, waiting to start questioning the local.

  “Major Miller?” a voice called from the darkness.

  “Yes?”

  “Over here, sir.”

  I followed the voice to the bunker. Leaning against the sandbags was a skinny kid in salty boots and threadbare utilities.

  “Lieutenant von Rhor, sir. I run the intel section here. Sorry it took so long to notify you about the situation, sir.”

  “No problem, Lieutenant. We found out about it, and that’s all that really matters.”

  “Yes, sir. Prisoner should be here from the motor pool at any minute. They were delayed by enemy action,” von Rhor said, pulling a pack of Marlboros from his helmet and offering me one.

  I took one, lighting it, and waited for the guest of honor to arrive.

  “Oh, Lieutenant, one more thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “Anything you hear is top secret.”

  “Yes, sir,” von Rhor replied with a gulp.

  I hate sounding like a bad movie, but most days there isn’t a better option. Odds were that an NVA patrol had slaughtered the village for reasons only known to their political officer, but better safe than sorry was MAC-V (SU-13)’s unofficial motto. Last time I checked, the official one is still classified. Sad thing was, von Rhor probably handled Top Secret information every day. I’d just made things special in his mind, and therefore more memorable. However, rules is rules. Not that anyone would believe him if he talked, but I’d hate to see his career go down the hole because he’d told the wrong ‘No shit there I was’ story in the wrong bar.

  I’d smoked that cigarette and offered von Rhor one of my Camel non-filters before the local came up, walking between two Marines from Motor-T and looking like he was going to lose control of his bowels at any minute. I took him from the Marines and escorted him into the bunker.

  He started babbling as soon as he saw the Nguyens. The Nguyens had a routine for situations like this—Huynh, the older brother, would start talking to the local, trying languages until he hit on one they had in common. Minh would come stand next to me and offer a running translation. It took a while for Huynh to find a language in common. Huynh took the babbling local over and ensconced him in a chair while they were trying to find a common language. After about ten minutes of back and forth, Minh started a running translation.

  “He’s from a village about twenty klicks north of here,” Minh said.

  “That’s just this side of the DMZ,” Master Guns supplied.

  Huynh and the villager talked, and the team corpsman moved over and started checking over the local—after Huynh explained that Doc wasn’t going to steal his soul or work any magic on him. The villager still gave Doc the hairy eyeball while trying to explain to Huynh what happened.

  Huynh came over and conferred with Minh, and then they both went over and spoke with the villager.

  “Major,” Huynh said, coming to where I stood, “you gotta understand, this guy’s a farmer by day and running supplies to the VC and intel to the NVA by night.”

  “Figured that.”

  “He’s also got less education than a Tokay gecko, so what he’s feeding us might be a line of shit.” Huynh shrugged.

  “Right.”

  “So anyway, he’s one of the Nung who moved south when the French left in 1954. They settled here by the DMZ, probably so they could inform for the North. Problem is, the tribe that was here wasn’t real happy to be displaced, and the Nung village reported the usual atrocities, including cannibalism.”

  I looked at Huynh. “Really?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, looking over his shoulder at the local. “The original tribe probably didn’t really eat the commie bastards, but you know how those stories get around. So about 1960 or so, the Provincial Governor got the right level of bribe, or finally got tired of the complaints, and decided to clear out the ‘bastards with the filed teeth’, and sent in an expedition. The expedition moved through all the villages out in the jungle north of Khe Sanh, ate all the rice, and molested all the women….”

  “We’ve heard that one before.”

  Huynh grinned. “Yes, sir, we have. But he also says the expedition drove off the cannibals and left them in peace for a while.”

  “Uh huh. I’m betting the NVA drove off the ‘cannibals’,” I replied, pulling out a smoke and offering Huynh one.

  We lit up before he continued.

  “Yes, sir. Probably elements of the NVA 304th Division, from what he’s let slip,” Huynh said, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. “But that leads us to today.”

  I took out a notebook. Before we did anything, I’d have to radio Saigon for permission, and notes would be important.

  “What happened?”

  “Charlie here”—Huynh hooked a thumb at the villager—”claims he was out in the jungle hunting. He was probably burying a weapons cache or supplies for units moving down the Ho Chi Minh Trail.” Huynh paused and delicately removed a piece of tobacco from his tongue. “From the way most of these villages operate, he may have been trying to figure out how to get a better price for his wife. Anyway, he says he heard gunfire from the direction of the village. His first thought was the Americans were there killing everyone, so he hid.”

  “Much as I hate to say it, it’s a sensible approach.”

  “He did let slip that the gunfire didn’t sound American. He says it was more grouped single shots than the usual American burst fire.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes, sir. Discounting the usual North Vietnamese propaganda, Charlie here says the gunfire died down and he was able to sneak back into the village.” Huynh raised a foot and butted out the smoke on the sole of his boot before continuing, “This is where it gets weird, sir.”

  “Okay.”

  The villager interrupted Huynh. Huynh replied.

  “He keeps saying we might be able to save them if we get there now, sir,” Huynh said with a Gallic shrug.

  “Save them from what?”

  “The cannibals are back from the dead, Major.”

  * * * * *

  It took about an hour to get permission to roll out the gate—I got Colonel Conrad on the radio down in Saigon, and he cut orders so 1/1 would let us go wandering through the jungle. Command started producing Tiffany cufflinks anytime anyone mentioned going anywhere near the DMZ or Laos—even though the NVA had thirty thousand troops in the area, making ‘Demilitarized’ a bad joke, and Northern Laos might as well be Western North Viet Nam. We’d driven north until the road petered out, leaving Second Platoon with the trucks, while First and Third had mounted shanks mare for a lovely
nighttime walk through the jungle. Charlie, with Huynh translating, led us to his village—it was a small place, no more than a few hooches with some straggling fields losing a fight against the encroaching jungle a couple of clicks south of the DMZ. Just the kind of place Victor Charlie and Uncle Ho liked—right near the Laotian border, and close enough to the Ho Chi Minh Trail that the villagers did a brisk business with units passing down the trail.

  Somewhere I could hear music playing. A few unhealthy-looking chickens scratched at the dirt or tried to catch the flies that rose in clouds from the drying pools of blood. The sonorous droning of the flies almost drowned out the music; this was going to be a bad one.

  “Notice anything, Major?”

  “Master Guns, I’ve got all the major signs of something going down—blood and a lot of spent brass, mostly from the MAS-36s the ARVN fobbed off on the local militia,” I replied, digging through a pile of brass. “Although this is interesting.”

  ‘This’ was a handful of cartridges, bright green with verdigris.

  “Let me see one,” Master Guns Huggins said, holding out a hand.

  I tossed one of the cartridges over.

  “Been abused,” he said, turning the cartridge over in his hand. “Primer never fired.”

  I checked the primers on the rest of the ammo—every round had the telltale dent of a firing pin strike into a bad primer.

  “I think its Japanese ammo sir,” Huggins said, tossing the round back.

  “I think it’s been buried in the damn jungle for twenty years if that’s the case,” I replied, dropping the rounds.

  “Major? We found a cache over here,” Private Lilly called from a hooch. “There’s a couple of bodies.”

  “On the way,” I shot back, rising from a crouch. “Master Guns?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, leading the way to where Lilly stood.